


Love Will Tear Us Apart

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Rare Pairings, flangst, functioning dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Pansy do couple's therapy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Will Tear Us Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 Rare Pair fest.

Wilhelmina Peppersmith was an accomplished witch whose pride in her career and family made her sit up straight in her high-backed chair. Her office was decorated in a warm but neutral palette, with plenty of potted plants for color, and a snoozing owl by the window. Diplomas from a mixture of Magical and Muggle institutions hung on the wall behind her, while smiling pictures of her children were tucked into corners. A bowl of dried rose hips and lavender sat on the desk, fragrancing the still air of what might have been an otherwise stuffy office. 

Across from her chair was a sofa, on which a surly looking couple sat at far ends, arms crossed, staring obstinately in opposite directions. Their steely glares and rigid postures looked out of place in the coziness of the homespun room.

Wilhelmina didn't need to look at her file to know the man's name. He'd been all over the papers a few years back, his face and crimes plastered across the front page of 'The Daily Prophet' for two months straight. His trial had been quite the spectacle, She, and the rest of the country, had followed it closely. 

Her eyes lingered on the inside of his left arm, wondering what she would find if she peeled back the crisp white of his dress sleeve. No, she told herself. She musn't dwell on such unprofessional thoughts. 

She'd actually met the wife a few times, at this or that benefit or fundraiser. The woman was a socialite, —or, to put it impolitely: unemployable. But there was no trace of the carefree, laughing woman that Wilhemina had shaken hands with at the last St Mungo's Charity Auction in the woman that sat before her. This woman's face was set into such a deep, unmoving scowl that it seemed incapable of making any other expressions. 

Clearing her throat, Wilhelmina switched on her tape recorder with a flick of her wand. “Would you like to start by telling me what brings you here today?”

Neither of them spoke. The rustle of tree branches against the windowpane filled the silence.

The woman finally spoke, her voice hard. “I've been asking myself that same question. I can't believe you've dragged me here.”

The man's nostrils flared. “I didn't force you to do this. You agreed to come. ”

“You gave me an ultimatum. That sounds like forcing to me.” She turned to Wilhelmina. “I'd like you to make a note of the fact that I'm here under protest.”

It wasn't unusual for one member of a couple to be resistant to the process. But she was here, whether she liked it or not, and Wilhelmina had a professional duty to do the best she could. “Noted,” she said, pulling out her quill and smiling warmly. The witch rolled her eyes and turned away. “Would you like to tell me about the ultimatum that Draco issued you?”

The wife's voice dripped with disdain. “We seek couples therapy, or else he'd leave.”

That wasn't uncommon either. For so many, especially these old, stodgy Pureblood types, couples therapy was a last resort. Wilhelmina pushed her glasses up her nose, and turned to the husband. “And why did you feel it necessary to issue such a demand?”

“Our marriage is falling apart. I, at least, wanted to try and fix it.”

“Always so melodramatic,” his wife said with a bitter laugh. “Our marriage is fine-- _was_ fine-- _would_ be fine, if you would just get over yourself.”

“It says here,” Wilhelmina interrupted, looking down at her files, “that you've been married for seven years, and that you married quite young. Was there a particular reason for that? Were you--”

“We were arranged,” the man said quickly. “But we were happy about the match.”

His wife snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

He turned to her then, the frustration in his voice rising with the color in his cheeks. “Pansy, will you please! Just try to be a normal person, for once in your miserable life.”

“If my life is miserable, its you're fault,” she muttered under her breath. With a tremendous roll of her eyes, she uncrossed her arms and addressed Wilhelmina. “Fine. Yes, I was quite happy about the match as well. It was a bloody dream come true.”

Wilhelmina could already tell that getting the wife to open up was going be like pulling teeth. Still, she had worked with difficult clients before. She'd just have to carry on, until the woman cracked. “And why was it a dream come true?” she asked, keeping her voice perfectly neutral. 

“Because...” the witch began, her hands flailing uselessly. “Because we were friends, and had been since we were children. Because we thought we could beat the odds, and do the whole pureblood marriage trap better than our parents had. Because we had an arrangement, you see, a plan.”

“Which you violated,” interjected her husband.

Her balled fists pressed into the cushions as she turned herself towards him. “That is so unfair! We never said anything about that! How was I supposed to know you'd react like a fucking baby? You're twenty-five years old, stop acting like a schoolboy.”

“You should have known,” he volleyed back. “I shouldn't have had to say. You should have known!”

“I'm not a bloody seer! I can't predict how you're going to react to every little thing. You're moodier than a goddamn witch on the rag sometimes.” 

“Little thing? _Little_ thing?” he repeated, a hysterical edge in his voice. “This is not a _little_ thing, Pansy. This is huge. This is _everything_. You bloody well slept with--”

She slumped back against the sofa and crossed her arms again before he could finish. “You're right,” she said, voice flat. “It wasn't a _little_ thing. It was bigger than yours, in fact.”

His jaw fell open.“Do you see how she behaves?” he asked, turning to Wilhelmina. “She calls _me_ a child, and yet she says bollocks like that. She _tries_ to hurt me.”

“Oh yes, Draco, that's it. I'm such a bitch, aren't I? There's nothing I love more in this life than hurting your precious little feelings. It's the reason I get up in the morning.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but Wilhelmina cleared her throat. She had a feeling they'd had this same argument many times before. They were here to heal, not bicker.

“Let's start at the beginning, shall we?” she suggested lightly. “Tell me about this 'arrangement' you made.”

The wife looked away, her lips pressed into a tight, angry line. The husband sighed and opened his mouth to explain.

***

Draco lay on his bed, watching the thick, swirling smoke as it rose to the ceiling. The thumping bass of the newest Weird Sisters record pulsed inside his skull. His limbs felt heavy, but his fingers and toes tingled pleasantly. His throat felt dry and scratchy, and he would have reached for the glass of water on his bedside table, but he never wanted to move again; he was just too comfortable. And besides, Pansy was laying crossways on the bed, using his stomach as a pillow. 

“Do you think my parents will accept the offer?” she asked, holding out the small gillyweed joint for him to take.

He took the joint from her, and held it in front of his face, examining the way it burned slowly around the edges. The smoke was pungent and made his eyes sting. He lowered it to his lips and took a deep drag, pulling the smoke into his lungs, feeling the gentle burn spread through his chest. 

He exhaled, watching the thick plume of smoke drift upwards, cutting through the still air of his bedroom. “I hope so,” he eventually remembered to reply. “Otherwise I might end up with Millie. Or one of the Greengrass sisters,” he added with a shudder. 

Pansy laughed and held her hand out for the joint. “Oh heaven forbid, the _Greengrasses_! Their father's in trade; it would be such a scandal.”

Draco lifted his head enough to watch as Pansy took her own long drag. “That's not what I meant,” he said, reaching down to flick the top of her head. “They're just... they're both so silly.”

She made a humming noise. “That's true enough. Millie wouldn't be so bad, as long as you didn't plan on fucking your wife ever. Everyone knows that Millie prefers the hole to the pole.”

“Maybe you should marry her then. Now that would be a scandal.” He flinched when she pinched his side. “And I do plan on fucking my wife,” he continued importantly. “Wouldn't be much of a marriage otherwise.”

“You better marry one of the Greengrasses then,” she said, ashing the joint on his floor. “Because I'm not fucking you either.”

With an incredible amount of effort, Draco was able to lift his upper body enough to brace himself on his elbows. Pansy scowled as she was dislodged from her resting place, and rolled over onto her stomach, the lines of their bodies pressed together. 

“And why not?” he demanded, gesturing to his torso. “I'm fit, aren't I?” 

Pansy rolled her eyes and flopped back onto her back. “Of course you're fit. Merlin's beard, Draco, could you be any more vain?”

“Then why not?”

“Because we don't work like that.” Her tone was already exasperated, as if she shouldn't even have to explain, as if it were obvious. “Fourth year was a disaster, and we weren't even fucking at the time. Sex just complicates things; it makes people all emotional and stupid. I _hate_ being stupid and emotional, especially about you. If we're going to make a marriage work, we can't let it be like that. We'd kill each other, you know we would.”

Draco frowned, feeling very much like a kid who'd just been kicked out of the candy store. What was the point of marriage if you didn't have access to sex on demand? He'd been led to believe that was one of—if not the only—benefit of the whole institution. 

“So what do you suggest then: a life of celibacy?” 

She pulled a horrified face. “Merlin, no! I don't think either of us could survive that. We'll just...seek our pleasure elsewhere. As long as we're discrete, and as long as we always come home to each other at the end of the day, I don't see why it would be a problem.”

The gillyweed made thinking difficult. Draco's mind felt just as slow and languid as his body as he turned over her proposal in his mind, but what she said made sense, in a way. “I guess...” 

She rolled onto her side. He could feel her breasts pressing against his arm. Breasts that he would never get to feel, he realized sadly. But of course, that only meant he would get to feel other breasts, countless pairs of breasts, belonging to a myriad of women. Now that he thought it about it, maybe it wasn't a wholly bad idea. In fact, Pansy might even be a genius.

“It'll work, darling. You'll see,” she said, tilting her head up to press a soft kiss against his cheek. “We'll be the happiest couple in the whole damn world.”

***

Her flying quill came to a stop. “You two have never been intimate?”

A slight flush colored the husband's face, but his wife just snorted. “Oh, we've been intimate all right. But our initial arrangement lasted a good five years, I'd say.”

“Five years?” Wilhelmina repeated, making a note. That was longer than she'd expected, to be honest. In her experience, those sorts of arrangements never worked for very long, but after observing the couple, she'd probably put it down to sheer stubbornness on their part. “What changed?”

“Well, we fucked, obviously.”

Wilhelmina set her quill down and schooled her face into the most calming look of patience she could muster. “I'm asking what changed to make you want to be intimate with your husband, after five years of a not being so.”

The woman shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, he _is_ fit,” she said with a shrug, a slight lift and release of her shoulders. “It's not that I didn't want to before then, it's that I thought it would be a bad idea.”

“And you no longer thought it was a bad idea?”

“I don't know. I guess I just didn't care anymore.” She looked away. “It's hard--” she said slowly, words carefully formed and eyes averted, “--living with someone you're attracted to, that you may even have certain affectionate feelings towards, and not being able to act on them.”

“And you, Draco?”

The husband looked at her. “And me?” 

“What changed for you?”

He stole a fleeting glance at his wife, then returned his gaze to his lap. “Well, constantly being on the pull can be tiring. There was an undeniable convenience factor.” 

At his wife's sharp intake of breath, he hastened to add, “But it wasn't just the convenience, I didn't mean it like that. I'd thought about it, long before it happened.” Two spots of high color appeared on his cheeks. “You're a beautiful woman, Pansy. I've always thought that, even when we were in school.”

The wife looked slightly mollified by that, but only slightly.

“Why don't you tell me about the first time the two of you were intimate,” suggested Wilhelmina, readying her quill.

***

Pansy leaned against the mountain of pillows, flipping idly through latest issue of _Witch Weekly._ She scanned the list of sex tips that promised to 'drive any wizard wild,' and turned the page with a dismissive snort. Men like eye contact during oral sex? Stop the bloody presses.

Taking a sip of her tea, she settled in to read an article about the latest sex scandal at the Ministry. The door leading to the en suite bathroom swung open, and Draco entered their bedroom, freshly showered, a white towel slung low on his hips. Pansy let her eyes wander over his body for a moment, then hid herself behind the magazine. 

“Any good gossip to report?” he asked over his shoulder as he rooted through the wardrobe.

“Just that Head Auror Dawlish is a pervert, and his underlings were all scrambling to keep it a secret.”

She sneaked a glimpse at his back, admiring the width of his shoulders and the way his body tapered into a slim waist and narrow hips. When his towel dropped to the floor and he bent over to step into his sleep pants, she bit her lip and forced herself to look away. What was wrong with her, ogling her husband's arse like that?

“So just the usual then?” he asked as he tossed his used towel into the hamper, then flopped onto the bed with an exaggerated groan.

“You're getting the sheets wet,” she complained, pushing at him with her foot.

“It'll dry,” he said dismissively. “I'm knackered. I helped Greg move today, don't think I've ever done so many lifting charms in my life.”

“Oh, poor baby,” she simpered. “All that manual labor.”

With his face pressed against the mattress, he raised one arm and flipped her two fingers.

“Oh, come up here, you big lump.” She maneuvered him to the middle of the bed, and tossed her magazine to the floor. Straddling his narrow hips, she worked the tired muscles of his shoulders with her hands, eliciting from him a number of grateful groans and sighs.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine those sounds being made in an entirely different context. Heat pooled in her groin, a familiar ache grew between her legs. If she rolled her hips just a little, he might not even notice. She did it once, then twice, but stopped herself before the third time. 

She slid back onto the bed. “Roll over. I'll do your front.”

“No, it's all right.”

“Don't be a prat.” She pushed at his shoulders. “I'm trying to be nice. You should be grateful.”

Draco resisted. Stubbornly, she pushed harder. They wrestled for a moment, a game of tugs and pulls. When he rolled onto his side to try and grab her elbows, she saw it: the tell-tale bulge in the front of his sleep pants. Her eyes went wide and a startled, “Oh!” escaped her lips.

Instantly, he was back onto his stomach, his face the color of a turnip. “Don't laugh,” he said glumly. “It felt good.”

Pansy's mouth went very dry and she had to make a conscious effort to remember to breathe. “I'm not laughing,” she said, pushing gently at his shoulders until he rolled over in embarrassed defeat. 

He pressed his legs together modestly, but there was nothing for it. She stared unabashedly at his tented pants. 

She'd seen Draco's cock before. Living with someone, it's hard not to. But the occasional glimpse of a flaccid penis while he was dressing--or even the hint of a half-hearted morning erection--was nothing compared to this. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she had done this. It had been her hands on his body that had caused such a stir.

As if in a dream, she reached out to touch his cock, her fingers skating up the length of the hardened shaft trapped beneath his pants. He watched her cautiously through heavily-lidded eyes. “I could make you feel better than good,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse even to her own ears. 

“Our arrangement,” he said weakly.

“Do you really want to think about that right now?”

His eyes fluttered shut as she slipped her finger beneath the elastic of his pajama pants. “Not particularly.”

Pansy peeled them back and got her first real, unhurried look at Draco's erect cock in all its glory. It was longer than she would have imagined, thicker too. The blood beneath his pale skin made it flush a pretty pink. 

She felt dizzy, her mind whirling with possibilities. She wanted to bend down and take him into her mouth, to taste his salty skin and bitter come. She wanted to feel the head of his cock pressing against the back of her throat, making her cheeks hollow and her jaw ache. 

But at the same time, there was a deep, longing ache between her legs. What she wanted was secondary to what she needed. She could feel the muscles in her cunt pulsing already, tightening around empty air. She needed something inside her desperately.

Shimmying out of her knickers, she swung her leg over his hips, sighing with relief as the line of his hard cock slipped between her folds. She almost felt overwhelmed as she rolled her hips, sucking in a deep breath when his cockhead butted up against her clit.

“Take it off,” he said urgently, his fingers fumbling with the hem of her nightgown. “I want to see you. Take it off.”

His eyes narrowed as she pulled the nightgown above her head, tossing it away. One hand clutched at her hip, while the other reached up to cup her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, teasing it to hardness. When he tore his gaze away from her breasts and looked up at her, there was a heat behind his eyes that she'd never seen before.

She launched herself at him, and quickly they found a rhythm, lips and tongues twisting, bodies pressing, stroking, sliding. The kiss was overwhelming; it made her dizzy. She was so focused on sucking his tongue into her mouth and grinding against him she almost forgot to breathe.

She reached behind herself, fumbling blindly for his cock. He groaned when her hand wrapped around it, and pushed his hips up. She pumped him lazily and scooted backwards, guiding him to her entrance. His cockhead stretched the rim of her cunt, but she couldn't wait to be filled. 

She tossed her head back and cried out as he thrust up and breached her in one swift, fluid motion. His cock felt large and thick inside of her, spearing her right down the middle. But it was a wonderful, fulfilling sort of pain, so much better than the empty ache she'd felt before. 

She couldn't keep her eyes open, not if she wanted to concentrate on the way his cock moved in and out of her, its path made easy by the embarrassing amount of wetness that seeped through her skin. “You feel so good,” she mumbled against his skin, searching for his lips. “So fucking good.” 

He wrapped his arms around her, and sat up, forcing her onto his lap. The change in angle almost made her weep for joy. They clung to each other so tightly not even magic could have wedged its way between them. They moved in tandem, sweat-soaked bodies grinding together. Fingernails dug into muscle, teeth sank into skin. He buried his face between her breasts, and she tipped her head to the heavens, begging for her release.

She could feel it rising: her lust reaching it's fever-pitch. She swiveled her hips and clawed at his back as she rode his cock with all her might. Her hair stuck to her face, and each desperate gasp for air made her lungs burn. She was riding the swell, so close to the crest. She cried for mercy as the muscles in her cunt seized tight, molten-hot pleasure fluttering in waves through her veins. He stilled, his grip on her back tightened as he held her through her orgasm.

Wearily, she lifted head. He kissed her deeply and laid her down, pressing her into the mattress. She felt tender and raw, but welcomed the dull pain she knew she'd have in the morning. She wanted the memory of him inside her to linger, so she could feel him long after this was over. He crawled on top of her, as if trying to climb inside her completely, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. 

His panting breath was wet and sticky against her overheated skin. He grunted: deep, guttural sounds torn from somewhere deep as his steady pumps became erratic, nothing more than sharp snaps of his hips. 

“Yes,” she hissed, sliding her fingers into his hair and arching her body. “That's it.” She squeezed her muscles as tight as she could, trying to hold him inside. God, she never wanted to let him go. “Come for me, Draco. Come inside me, darling. Fuck me full of your come.”

The line of Draco's back went rigid, his fingers curled in the sheets one either side of her head. Still, she whispered filthy encouragements in his ears as he thrust with finality, holding himself deep inside and letting out a desperate, shuddering gasp as he unloaded himself inside her. She hooked her legs around his hips and dug her feet into the small of his back, pulling him impossibly close, flexing her muscles, milking every last drop of come from him.

His body went lax, pinning her to the bed with its dead weight. She allowed it, running her hands in soothing strokes up and down his back, turning her head so she could press soft kisses against his hair. Eventually, it his weight was too much, and she was forced to push lightly at his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he said with a groan, bracing himself above her. They both watched as he reached down and pulled out, his spent prick hanging heavy and used between his legs, glistening with her wetness in the dim light of the room. 

He flopped onto his back, and stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling. “That was...” 

She rolled towards him, tilting her head up to kiss his cheek. “I know.”

***

“It was only supposed to be that once, though,” the woman said. “We agreed on it, the next morning.”

“That didn't last long through, did it? A day and a half? Two days?” The husband crossed one ankle over his knee, looking quite smug. “She hasn't been able to resist me since.”

His wife gave an indignant squawk, reaching out to pinch his side. He squirmed out of her grip, batting her hand away with a frown.

She turned back to Wilhemina. “I could have resisted him, had I wanted. I just didn't want to. Like he said already, it was _convenient_.” She drawled the last word with audible bitterness. 

“Oh, come on. You know I didn't mean it like that,” he said wearily.

She tossed her hair. “Well, maybe I did.”

The husband rolled his eyes, and if Wilhelmina had been less professional, she would have done the same. 

“I don't think convenience was a factor for either of you,” she pointed out gently. “It doesn't sound convenient, having to set all of these rules and limitations on what your relationship could or couldn't be. And if it were nothing more than convenience, we wouldn't be sitting here today.”

Husband and wife both looked away, and neither said anything.

“That was two years ago. What has happened since? Do you continue to see other people outside of your marriage?”

The wife's face pinched. “Yes,” she said sourly, at the same time her husband said, “No.”

She turned on him immediately. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You're the only woman I've been with since that night,” he said quietly, staring at the folded hands in his lap.

She slumped back against the sofa, shaking her head. “He's lying.”

Wilhelmina cast a glance at the husband, who had become very interested in an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve. “And why do you say that?” 

“Because he is!” she nearly cried. “We agreed that even if we were sleeping together, we would still be able to see other people. Do you really expect me to believe that he hasn't?”

“That we'd _be able_ to see other people. Not that we had to. Have you noticed me primping for any dates lately?”

Her mouth hang open for a few seconds, before it snapped shut and the line of her mouth hardened.

“Astoria Greengrass, the Ministry Christmas Party.”

“For the millionth time, I didn't fuck her.”

“The fuck you didn't,” his wife replied, rolling her eyes. “You didn't come home until five o'clock, and when you did, you rank of gin and pussy. Do you know how embarrassing that was for me that night? There was _nothing_ discrete about the way you were hanging all over each other. You spent half the night with your eyes glued to her tits.”

The husband balked. “I did not reek of 'gin and pussy,'” he insisted, sounding scandalized. “Gin maybe, but definitely not pussy. I went to Blaise's after the party. I _told_ you that! I invited you to come, for fuck's sake!” 

“Oh, that wasn't a real invitation. You were just trying to make it seem like you weren't running off with that little slut.”

He turned and stared at her, mouth agape. “Where the hell did you get that idea? The next time we saw Blaise, he said he was sorry you hadn't come over! Everyone else from our year was there. It was a fucking after-party, for Salazar's sake!” He turned to Wilhelmina. “She is insane, certifiably insane. If she were a Muggle, I'd have her sectioned.”

“Why don't you just lock me away in an abandoned wing of the Manor, then? Isn't that how Malfoys usually handle troublesome women?”

The husband groaned, and sent a pleading looking towards the ceiling. “And yet, _I'm_ the melodramatic one. And besides, you have _no right_ to say anything to me about that night.” 

Wilhelmina's quill was flying. How these two had managed to make it seven years, she'd never know. When they both returned to sullen, hateful silences, she turned to wife.

“When you thought that your husband was sleeping with this other woman at the party, how did it make you feel?”

“It didn't make me feel anything,” she replied airily, examining her nails. “We had an understanding. Why would I care that he abandoned me at a wretched Ministry event in order to stick his dick in any wet and willing hole?”

Her husband opened his mouth to protest, but after a quick glance from Wilhelmina, and he snapped it shut.

“Oh, all right. It made me feel jealous,” the wife admitted with a huff when she could stand the silence no more. “I felt fucking jealous, because I've never liked that little tart, and she had no business throwing herself all over my husband. It was a disgusting display. You could smell her desperation from across the room. And even if we have an understanding, _she_ didn't know that. She should have respected what's mine. And you didn't do _anything_ to discourage her, either,” she added, speaking to her husband, but glaring at the wall above Wilhelmina’s head. “You made me feel like a fool.”

He stared at her, blinking. “I didn't...it was just a little harmless flirting. I didn't think you'd mind. I never would have, honestly, Pans. I didn't even consider following through with it. And I honestly didn't think you'd care at all.”

She shifted, pressing closer to the arm of the sofa, fingers picking at a loose thread. “I didn't think I'd mind either,” she admitted quietly. “But I did. And you know how I get when I mind things.”

Wilhelmina looked back and forth between the couple, noting their grim expressions. There was more to this story than they were saying. “So after Draco left, when you were feeling hurt and foolish, how did you respond? What did you do?”

The wife's eyes flickered towards her husband. She pulled her legs up to her chest and hugged her knees. In a very small voice she said, “I shagged Harry Potter.”

***

Pansy watched as the group of her old classmates disappeared through the ballroom doors. Fuck the lot of them, she thought bitterly, reaching for another glass of champagne. Her ears still rung with the shrillness of Astoria Greengrass' affected giggles. Merlin, what a scene that tart and her fool husband had made, as though no one else would have noticed the lingering glances, the unnecessary touches. 

How was she ever going to show her face in public again, everyone knowing that she was just the sad, bitter old wife who'd been left behind when her playboy husband traded in for a younger model? And only two fucking years younger, at that. It wouldn't last. In two years time, he'd just chuck Astoria over for some other slag. Maybe he'd try a ginger next time. He could have a collector's set. 

She stood on unsteady feet and made her way towards the bar. Champagne was no longer strong enough. She was going to get shitfaced on free booze and pass out face-first on the foyer floor. Imagine how guilty Draco would feel then, coming home after a night of philandering to find her in such a state. He'd feel terrible about running off with that blond bimbo then. 

Good, she thought sourly, he deserves to feel terrible.

Sidling up to the bar, Pansy almost lost her balance. Why had she insisted on wearing such stupidly tall shoes? Her hand shot out to prevent an embarrassing tumble, grabbing onto the first thing it could find for support. That something turned out to be a man's shoulder, and that shoulder just happened to belong to Harry Potter, who was watching her with open amusement. 

“All right there?”

“I'm fine,” she drawled, releasing his shoulder and sliding onto the bar stool next to his. “These shoes are just killing me.”

Potter looked down. “I can see why. Those things are ridiculous.”

She motioned to the bartender to bring her a glass of whatever Potter was having. It didn't matter what it was, as long as it was strong. “Draco likes them,” she said with a shrug.

Potter's head cocked to the side, and Pansy realized that he was checking out her legs. Something that didn't feel exactly like righteous indignation stole through her. “Where is Malfoy, anyway?” he asked, his eyes lingering.

The bartender appeared, sliding her a glass of something warm and dark that burned her throat on the way down. “Who knows,” she answered, tossing her hair over her shoulder and taking another large gulp. “Off shagging some whore.”

Potter gaped at her. “Seriously?”

“Serious as a Crucio,” she said, setting her empty glass down with a thunk and signaling for another. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “And where is Mrs Potter, this evening?”

He turned away, glaring into his own drink. “At her parents'. She's going to be staying with them for a few months.”

“Uh-oh,” she sing-songed, nodding a thanks to the barkeep as she accepted her refill. “Trouble in paradise? The perfect Golden couple, not so golden after all?”

She watched as he tilted his head back, the rest of his drink disappearing neatly down his throat. He set his glass down with more force than was necessary. “You're one to talk.”

She lifted her glass, he had her there. “Touché.” 

She sipped on this round slower, watching Potter from the corner of her eye. He was reasonably attractive. Broad shoulders, strong arms. Being an Auror had done wonders for him, it seemed. She let her eyes wander down his body and briefly wondered what his cock looked like.

The fleeting thought almost made her choke on her drink. What was she doing, thinking about Harry Potter's cock? But still...she couldn't help but wonder. Was it large? She'd bet so; he walked like it was. It was probably thick too, and veiny. Merlin, what an absurd thing to think about: Harry Potter's cock. But he did have one. And it did get hard. And he did fuck women with it. 

A familiar warmth spread through her belly, mixing with the alcohol, encouraging her keep thinking along this dangerous line. Potter's wife had moved out. Her own husband was currently balls deeps in some barely-legal trollop. 

She leaned towards him, and dropped her voice. “So, Potter, here's the thing. Draco and I have...I guess you could call it an open marriage, even though I haven't really--” she cut herself off. There was no reason to tell him too much. “Let's just say, it's been too long since I've taken advantage of our little arrangement. But if he's going to swan off and get his kicks tonight, why shouldn't I?”

Potter sat back, his eyes scanning her, up and down. “Why, Mrs Malfoy, are you propositioning me?”

She looked at him over shoulder, through her lashes. “Is that something you'd be interested in?”

She could practicality see the wheels turning in his head as he watched her, weighing his options. His fingers absently traced the rim of his empty glass, his lips pursed in thought. Just as Pansy was about to lose her patience and call the whole thing off, he pushed his stool back and stood. “Your place or mine?”

There was no way she was taking him home and letting him fuck her in the bed she shared with Draco. But she had no real interest in going home with him either. It would make this too depressing, too real, to fuck him in the home his wife had abandoned. Or even worse, in some sad, little bachelor pad that reeked of unwashed socks and yesterday's take-away. 

She hopped off her stool. “Neither.”

She led him out of the ballroom, his hand on the small of her back to steady her. He didn't say anything as they wound through the corridors of the deserted Ministry. He cocked an eyebrow when she stopped in front of the loo, but followed her inside without objection.

Her blood thrummed with excitement, with the _wrongness_ of what they were about to do. She didn't know what excited her more, the fact she was about to get fucked in some random bathroom, or the fact she was about to get fucked in some random bathroom by Harry fucking Potter. That would show Draco. Merlin, he'd have a fit if he ever found out. A thrill coursed through her when she realized she had just pulled the most famous Wizard of their generation. Could Astoria Greengrass say that?

Pansy reached beneath the bottom of her dress and pulled down her knickers, letting them pool at her feet. Carefully, she kicked them away and wobbled towards the row of sinks. She held Potter's gaze in the mirror as she lifted up her dress and bent over the sink. 

He lowered his gaze, his eyes fixed on her naked backside. “You really don't screw around, do you?”

“I'm a girl who knows what she wants,” she said sweetly, wiggling her arse in what she hoped would be an enticing manner. “Now, either fuck me or fuck off.”

He stepped towards her, running one calloused hand over the curve of her arse. She shuddered, and pushed into the touch. “Are you sure you want it like this?” he asked, reaching for his belt buckle. “We could go somewhere else, somewhere nicer.”

Pansy let her head hang, and pressed her face against the cool porcelain of the sink. “No, like this. Just do it.”

He entered her without preamble, and she cried out, fingers grasping uselessly at the sink as his cock forced its way inside. The was wet with anticipation, but not wet enough. 

The stretch burned, but the burn was good. It wouldn't be right if it didn't feel wrong, if it didn't hurt just a little. They weren't making love; this wasn't about candles and flowers and romance. There was no room for caution or tenderness in a drunken fumble in the loo. This was about knocking one off, meeting a need, proving to herself that she could do whatever she wanted. 

He held onto her hips and fucked into her hard. The sound of their flesh slapping together echoed off the tiled walls. He was grunting as he thrust, and she was gasping, each jut of his hips forcing his thick cock deeper, nearly ripping her in two. She needed something to hold on to, but the taps turned on when she grabbed at them, and water shot out from the spout. 

“Careful,” Potter said, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and yanking her head back out of the spray. Her spine arched, a delightful stretch. She loved the way his hand felt in her hair, possessive and strong, holding her steady as his hips snapped. 

His wild thrusts rocked her between him and the sink; she didn't even try to push back, just spread her legs as wide as she could and took him in. She felt the muscles in her stomach pull taut as he ghosted a hand down her side, over the curves of her breasts and belly, down between her legs. His questing fingers found her clit. He pressed his chest against he coaxed her orgasm from her with clever, nimble fingers, and she cried out with quaking pleasure.

His soft kiss against her shoulder blade was the only one they'd exchanged the whole time. And then his hands were back on her hips, blunt fingernails digging into her skin. He pulled her against him as he thrust into her, and she let him, feeling as limp and useless as a ragdoll. He let out a deep groan and held very still, except for the minute twitch of his hips, as came deep inside her cunt.

The whole damn thing hadn't lasted more than five minutes.

Potter pulled out and stumbled back a few paces. She heard the sound of a zip being done up, and of a belt being buckled. When he touched her again, she tensed, but relaxed when she realized he was only pulling her dress down. She had the urge to laugh hysterically when the thought, _'what a gentleman,'_ flashed through her mind. 

Pansy smoothed out the fall of her skirt and turned around, resting her hip against the sink over which she'd just been fucked. 

“I can't believe we just did that,” he said lamely. He didn't seem to know where to look, staring at the floor and then the wall behind her. All of his brusque confidence must have left him with his come.“I've never done anything like that before.”

If she were a different kind of woman, she might have found this awkwardness endearing. Instead, it irritated her. Draco would never be so gauche. But he wasn't Draco, was he? No. He was the opposite of Draco, and that just irritated her more. 

“It was a one time deal,” she replied, crossing her arms. “It'll never happen again.”

“Of course not. Malfoy--”

“Draco would kill you,” she interrupted. “Just to be clear. He'd make Crucio seem like a Cheering Charm if he found out.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured.” Potter shuffled his feet, and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Was this a mistake?”

Pansy couldn't help but laugh. Merlin, what a dolt. Of course it was a mistake; that was rather the point. She reached down, and scooped her discarded knickers up from the floor. “Here,” she said, pressing them into his hand. “A token to remember me by.” 

He stood stock-still as she kissed his cheek and sauntered her way out of the loo.

Out in the hallway, she was able to drop the act. The gravity of what she'd just done crashed over her like a tidal wave, almost knocking her to her feet. She held onto the wall as she made her way down the corridor, the heavy pit of regret in her stomach growing with each step. 

She didn't care that she'd just fucked a married man, whether that marriage was happy or not was of little consequence to her. But this was the lowest form of betrayal she could have sunk to, worse even than Draco and Astoria. Sure, Astoria was an obnoxious twat, but she was also a friend. This was _Potter._ Even if he and her husband could be in the same room without hexing each other to pieces these days, it didn't mean their life-long animosity was truly dead.

It had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time, the perfect plan. But now? She was surprised even by her own audacity. There had been physical pleasure, maybe, but not the kind that kept. She was emptier than she had been before. And despite how much she'd had to drink, she felt frightfully sober. And nauseous. So fucking nauseous. 

The first thing she did when she returned home was slip into a hot bath, washing away any remnants of Potter that may have stuck to her skin. She wanted to feel clean, because tonight was the night. She had made her decision. 

She was going to tell Draco the truth. She was going to tell him the secret she'd harbored for almost ten years. She was going to finally say it. It was a simple enough thing to say. Other people said it all the time. To their friends, to their families, to their dogs. It was only three stupid little words. She could do it too. 

Pansy waited at the kitchen table with a strong pot of tea, watching as the hands of the clock above the door made their revolutions. Midnight melted into one o'clock; two o'clock bled into three. And still she sat, casting Warming Charm after Warming Charm until her tea was too bitter to drink. She chain smoked until the ashtray was full and her throat burned.

When the clock struck four, she gave up, and washed her cup out in the sink. When Draco stumbled into their bedroom forty-five minutes later, wobbly-legged and reeking of gin and—oh god, what was that other smell?--she pretended to be asleep. 

He didn't deserve to know her secret.

***

There was silence in Wilhelmina's small office. Even she had set down her quill to listen.

The wife was still hugging her legs, her cheek pressed against her knee, head turned away from her husband, who stared at her with his mouth hanging open.

“Say something,” she said hoarsely, not looking at him.“Just say something.”

His jaw flapped wordlessly, until he stammered out, “I-I didn't know.” He reached out to touch her, but she shrank away.

“No fucking shit,” she said bitterly. “And you never were supposed to, either. I hate you for making me come here, for making me say it.”

Wilhelmina shifted in her seat, leaning forward. “Pansy,” she said quietly, and waited until the witch's eyes found hers. “Why are you so adamant that your husband not know that you love him? It's a personally reasonable feeling to have for the person you've married. Some would say, it's even expected.”

The wife looked away, curling into herself more, stubbornly refusing to answer.

Her husband slid down the length of the sofa. Wilhelmina watched the witch stiffen as he wrapped his arms around her. “I want to show you something,” he whispered.

He released her and dug into his pocket, pulling out a tiny book. Tapping it with his wand, it grew in size. She uncurled her legs and took it from him. “Your old journal?”

“Read the entry from October 15, 1998.”

She looked at him queerly. “The night before our wedding.”

He nodded, watching her carefully as she flipped through the pages. When she found the entry, she cleared her throat and began to read:

“Tomorrow is the big day. I used to dread this moment when I was younger, when I thought that marriage was nothing more than being auctioned off to whichever witch had the richest father. Maybe that's what's happening anyway, but I couldn't be happier with the choice my parents have made for me. I was really worried they might go with the Greengrasses for a while, but it looks like my desperate pleading actually worked for once.

I know Pansy wishes she were free to choose her own husband. And I know that if she were, it wouldn't be me. But there's nothing for it. This is the life we were born into, and we'll just have to make the best of it. I want us to be happy, even if it means consenting to this mad agreement of hers. Sometimes I think its brilliant--what 18-year old wouldn't love to be given permission to screw anything he fancies?--but other times I wish we didn't need it, that we could just be married and in love like a normal couple. She says she doesn't want to end up like her parents, but I think mine really love each each honestly. 

Because the truth is: I think I could love her if she let me. She's the only girl I've ever met that I can really stand. That's got to mean something, right?”

When she finished, her lips quirked with a suppressed smile. Her husband pressed a kiss on the top of her head. “And the next day's.”

Her eyes flickered up, and locked with Wilhelmina's for a moment, before she took a deep breath and turned the page.

“I was wrong, what I said yesterday, about being able to love Pansy if she let me. After seeing her today in her wedding robes, smiling and laughing and looking so goddamn beautiful that she made even my father weep, I think I'm doomed to love her whether she wants me to or not.”

The wife closed the book gingerly, resting a trembling hand on the cover. “I don't understand. Why are you showing me this?”

The husband turned a bit pink around the ears. “I was actually planning to guilt you with it,” he admitted sheepishly. “To prove that I was more invested in this relationship than you are, and that I always have been.”

His wife let out a watery laugh, bringing her hand to her lips to cover her smile. “That sounds like you,” she said. “Did you mean it? Do you still think you could learn to...”

“Love you?” he finished for her. His voice was a mixture of exasperation and affection, “Pansy, I already have. I've loved you this entire time. From that first day forward. Hell, maybe even before that, I don't know. Besides the two weeks I dated Tracey Davis in fifth year, you're the only woman I've been with for more than thirty-five minutes. And even then, I only dated Tracey to make you jealous.”

Wilhelmina raised an eyebrow when the wife laughed happily and said, “Oh, darling, that's so romantic.” 

The man took his wife's hand. “If I had come home earlier that evening, do you think we could have avoided all of this? The past few months have been unbearable, even by our standards.”

She looked away and grimaced. “I still would have fucked Potter. But I wouldn't have hid it from you, or lied about why.” She gave a helpless, little shrug. “I don't know.”

“The thing about Potter...” the husband said slowly. “I think I could have gotten over it, had I known how you felt. It's just that--” he flushed and looked away, “--he always beats me at everything. I thought that if he wanted you, I'd lose you to him too.”

“Oh, Draco,” she sighed, reaching out stroke his face. “I don't give two fucks about that tosser. I only did it because I wanted to hurt you. Merlin, you were right,” she said with a broken laugh. “I am a bitch.”

“No, darling, no,” he said, scooting closer, taking her face in his hands. “Pansy, don't say that. You're not a bitch.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Yes, I really am.”

He smiled indulgently, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “All right, maybe you are. But that's one of the things I love about you most.”

That settled it, Wilhelmina thought. There was something seriously wrong with these people.

“If I had stayed up, and told you the truth...if I had asked you if you wanted to make a proper go at a real relationship with me, would you have said yes?”

Her husband looked at her, very seriously, and nodded. 

She bit her lip and tried to turn away, reaching for the loose piece of thread she'd been playing with earlier, but he caught her hand and brought it back.

“If I asked you the same thing now,” he said, “would you say yes?”

Instead of responding, she raised her hand to brush through his hair, her fingers curling around the nape of his neck. She pulled him towards her as she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips. She pulled back and nodded, the tip of her small nose brushing against his.

Wilhelmina watched in surprise as the man pressed his wife against the arm of the sofa. She squirmed in his grip, until her back was flat against the cushions, a wide smile stretched across her face. They gazed at each other adoringly, a complete turn around from the icy glares they'd been sending all afternoon. The wife wrapped her legs around her husband's waist, and pulled him down on top of her.

Wilhelmina cleared her throat. They paid her no mind, and began to kiss lazily, wet tongues sliding out of their mouths to twine together. When the man dipped his head to bite at his wife's throat, Wilhelmina cleared her throat again. 

“Excuse me,” she said loudly. “Excuse me! You two still have a lot of issues you need to sort though, I recommend we continue the session.”

The wife wrenched her mouth away from her husband's. He immediately dipped down to trail a line of wet kisses across her collarbone. “Look, Healer Pepperworth,” she said, her words punctuated by puffy little gasps. “We appreciate everything you've done for us, really. But do you mind?”

“Do I mind?” Wilhelmina repeated. “But this is my office! I'm sorry, but you can't do that here. You've got to get out if you want to do _that._ ”

“We paid for an hour session,” said the witch, throwing a nod at the clock above the door. “We've got twenty-minutes left. I recommend you either get the hell out of here or prepare yourself for quite the show.”

Wilhelmina bustled to her feet. “This is outrageous! In all my years, I've never... So rude! So unprofessional!”

The husband lifted his head. “Bill us for the sofa if that's what you're worried about. It's a lopsided piece of shit anyway,” he added with a grin, turning back to his wife.

She laughed, snaking her arms around his neck. “Nothing like the one in that villa we stayed at in Nice. Do you remember that sofa, darling? Do you remember shagging me over the back of it?”

“Fuck yes,” he growled, his hand reaching up to palm her breast through her robes. “And over the railing on the balcony. And in the shower, and on the kitchen table...”

Wilhelmina made her escape, not wanting to hear the laundry list of furniture they've had sex on, to which her sofa was about to be added. She could still hear them even in the corridor, and cast a quick Silencio on the door lest any of her colleagues walk past and think she was trying some new form of experimental therapy. 

She made her way towards the canteen, intent on a strong cup of hot tea to soothe her frazzled nerves, trying to think of another Mind-Healer she hated enough to refer the couple to if they tried to book another session. Those two needed more help than she was able to provide.

***

Draco laid in bed, head propped up on one arm, watching Pansy sleep. Her dark hair was fanned out across the pillow, her neck littered with purple and yellow bruises he'd put there. She'd magic them away in the morning, but he still liked to look at them now. The dark bedsheets were a stark contrast to her pale skin, and her bare breasts were exposed, nipples hardened by the cool air of their bedroom.

He reached up to stroke one, marveling at the change in texture underneath his fingertip. Pansy let out a contented sigh and cracked open one sleepy eye. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he whispered, gliding his hand around her back, and drawing her towards him, pressing her sleep-warm skin against his own. “Go back to sleep.”

Pansy made a humming noise and burrowed closer, tangling their legs together. She tilted her head up, pressing a kiss against the underside of chin. “Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Draco smiled, and pulled her closer. He rested his chin on the top of her head and let his hand card through her heavy, silken hair. “ I love you too.”

She made another pleased noise, her warm breath tickling his neck. “I know.”


End file.
